Mantra
by Nokros
Summary: Sweeney Todd, revivalverse. About Toby and the asylum worker. This used to be called Self Preservation, but I changed it. :P
1. Prologue

**A/N**: This is completely Sweeney Todd revivalverse. My elaboration on the interaction of Toby and the Doctor (which is an understated role only present in John Doyle's production). The characters are not mine, they are Sondheim's, Christopher Bond's, Hugh Wheeler's, John Doyle's and their respective actors'. Based on what can be seen of the two characters in the revival, discussions I've had, and personal experience.

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The need to help is the hardest need to deny. It is the only need that comes from desire for others and not for self. Trying to ignore it is practically impossible - it latches onto whatever scrap of decency is still left in human beings and can only be combated by selfishness. A good, or even decent person, cannot fend it off rationally without feeling that they are being completely insensitive towards the needs of others. So they follow their need to wherever it takes them - the streets, prisons, hospitals.

Hers took her to an asylum.

She entered the asylum with a serious, but optimistic tone. She had come to change lives. She had come to cure ills. She had come to be a breath of fresh air to those who were miserable, wretched, and hopeless. The need to help burned within her, so hot that, for a while, it could carry her through cold nights of no sleep. It could warm the hands she used to reach out to the destitute. It could light the way through the dark corridors as she returned to her room in the early hours of the morning, after nursing a patient through an episode.

But it could not change anyone.

Though years of working, the light became dimmer and dimmer as she realized that sympathy, kindness, and love were not what any of these people needed. Her mind had trouble forming that thought without guilt. She had always believed that those traits could solve any problem. Eventually, she began to understand that what compassion did was let people slip into the past, where they were coming from. It pushed them backwards instead of pulling them forward.

She didn't want to accept that.

In this other world, everything she'd thought was wrong. Everything she had given her life to. But as she watched her patients slip away, she disconnected, and brought them back. She left herself behind, she left her need to feel like she was being encouraging to these poor souls, and focused on getting them through. On being, calm, cool, blank, and pulling them through. The definition of selflessness, and she never got that self-satisfied, good deeds feeling.

The thing about the need to help is it is all consuming. It will not let go, and leaves no room for self-preservation. It will take everything you have under the guise of being a service to others.

She worked this way for years, occasionally remembering the days when she was careless enough to care. Whenever she did, though, she put those thoughts out of her mind. They were not helpful. They would only push her back, like they had her patients. Every now and then, a patient came in that some repressed part of her would try to connect with, try to be a friend to. She would catch and stop it, so she could be strong, steady, and emotionless to help them, too. Except one. One child came in, and something about him caught her and would not let go. Something in his eyes seemed to offer her redemption.

His name was Tobias Ragg.


	2. Cut, Cut, Cut, Cadougan

To tell you the truth, I didn't care about the Fleet Street murders. The police wanted me to get as much information as I could out of the boy who was brought in. I assured them I would pass on anything I found, but told them not to expect much. It would be useless to try to describe to them how unreliable the patients were. They would knock on the door again in a week, I knew. I would tell them again, and they would come again and get nothing until they gave up.

Walking past his room, I knew we would never get anything out of him. I stopped and paused at his door, listening to his voice drift out. "Smoothly, smoothly, smoothly, smoothly..." It was all he ever said, and he never stopped. He spoke so softly, but the words would follow me down the hall, working their way into my head, my steps, my breath. His mantra. He wasn't loud enough to justify a gag. Pity.

The day after he arrived, I had to assess him, to figure out what was wrong, why he was here, and check for any physical damage. I came armed with bandages, a bucket of water, tranquilizers - you never know what you might need. When I entered his room, he was still repeating, "Smoothly, smoothly," an almost musical underscoring of everything I did. I sighed, and knelt down beside him. He was still in the straightjacket, until I could determine whether or not he was dangerous. He stared, vacantly, at the ground, seemingly unaware that I was there. He probably _was_ unaware.

I started to undo the straightjacket, and, with a start, he looked at me. Eyes wide, he stared for a second, before whispering with urgent energy, "Three times! That's the secret! Three times through to make 'em tender and juicy, three times through the grinder, smoothly, though... smoothly..." The words brought him back to his calm, oblivious state. Completely helpless, I thought. The police could pester me all they wanted, but there would be nothing to show for it.

I slipped the straightjacket off his body, and he let his arms drop, out of his control. It looked like I wouldn't need the tranquilizers; the boy seemed almost catatonic as it was. I removed his pajama shirt to check for bruises or cuts. My eyes were immediately drawn to several cuts along his wrists. They looked self inflicted. He would remain in the straightjacket longer, I decided, to protect himself. I inspected them closer. Dirt had slipped its way in them as they started to scab. I brought the bucket of water closer, and dipped a piece of cloth in it, so I could clean the wounds. The moment I placed the cloth on his wrist, however, the boy jerked into awareness, trying to scramble away from me.

"Calm down," I said, calmly, trying to lead by example. He did nothing of the sort. I grabbed his arm, and he cried out. Perhaps I would get to gag him, after all. He thrashed against my grip. "Tobias!" I barked.

He stopped. Everything. He froze right there, looking at me with a stunned fear. He was the kind of child who showed everything he felt on his face.

"Please, don' call me that, mum..." he said quietly, tears welling up in his eyes. I was slightly taken aback at this form of address. No one had ever called me that, before. Coming from a child who had barely seen me before, it was... unnerving.

"Please, mum," he said again, "that's not my name. No one's ever called me that. Mrs. Lovett didn', she called me Toby... or love. Only... only 'e did. Only Mister T--" he stopped, as if interrupted. His eyes focused towards something only he could see, and he gasped.

I needed to get him out.

I snapped my fingers in his face. "Toby," I called. I did not like giving my patients nicknames, but in this case, I knew that nothing would get done if he had an episode whenever I said "Tobias". I would have to break him of this, eventually, but for now...

He looked at me again, back, but still scared. "I'm just going to clean you up. The water is a little cold, but you'll hurt more later if I don't do this now. Do you understand?" He nodded, but his eyes still showed confusion. The boy couldn't hide anything.

I went back to work at his wrists. He shivered away from the cloth at first, but then seemed to calm down. I looked at him - he was slipping away again.

"Mrs. Lovett wouldn' like this place. It's too plain. She loved to make things pretty. She'd put flowers everywhere, said it made people like it more..." His voice was distant, floating around the room. I started on the other wrist. "But... the flowers made 'er sick, made 'er sneeze... but then she'd put more in, she said people wouldn' see her bein' sick if they saw her flowers, they wouldn' see how bad things was if they saw the good parts instead..."

I started to wrap bandages around his wrists, trying to tune out the nonsense.

"An' she wanted everythin' perfect, that's why she wouldn' let me 'elp with the pies for so long, see, but then she finally said I could, she let me 'elp make 'em and bake 'em and three times through the grinder, that's what made them perfect, she said, three times, but smoothly... smoothly... smoothly..." And the boy was gone again. I quickly checked the rest of him for any other injuries, but the cuts were the only things of note. I eased him back into the straightjacket. He didn't put up any resistance; again, it was like I was not even there. After securing him, I gathered my things and left.

His mantra was ringing in my ears, like an annoying song.


	3. Nothing's Gonna Harm You

"Toby."

He sat there, his mouth firmly clamped shut, eyes looking past me with pointed determination. If he was not in a straightjacket, his arms would most likely be crossed in front of him in a pout. Some people would find that adorable.

"Toby."

His eyes flicked to my face, then away again. He was judging to see if I'd swayed at all. I hadn't. I would never sway. Years ago, this would have been amusing. Today, it was simply banal.

"Tobias."

He looked at me again, the customary fear reaching towards me. I held his gaze this time. I made him talk, at least, though he still held his mouth closed. _Please, tell me you didn't just call me that,_ he was saying. _Tell me you'll comfort me and hold me and tell me you're not him. Not him._

Sorry, Toby, but I am. I'm your villain, now.

Tobias, I corrected myself. Tobias.

"Tobias," I reiterated, "you must eat." He shook his head again, but did not stop looking at me. Progress. "If you do not eat, you will die."

Blank. The thought didn't affect him. I wasn't surprised.

"In the pies, mum..." he whispered, looking around as if he was afraid someone would overhear. "Mrs. Lovett didn' want me eatin' the pies, but when I was in the bake 'ouse, I did, I knew I wasn' supposed to, but I'd 'eard 'ow good they were, see, I told people ev'ry day and I never actually ate them, same with the elixar, but I knew the pies weren' fake like the elixar, and I wanted to taste the pies, but she wouldn' let me so when I was down in the bake 'ouse, I did, and... in the pies, mum..." He broke off, and looked at me again. _It's too horrible,_ he was saying. _It's too horrible for me to tell you, for you to know. Forgive me for going this far._

Was he trying to protect me?

"Tobias, you will eat. Either you can do it voluntarily, or I will have to force feed you." He looked back at me with a mixture of shock and disbelief. _Didn't you hear what I just said? Didn't you see what I meant? How can you ignore what just happened? That moment?_

"Fine." I momentarily sat the bowl and spoon down, far enough away from Toby so that his kicking legs could not reach them. As I sat him upright, against the wall, he realized that I had not been joking, and he started thrashing in protest against his straightjacket. Grabbing his shoulders and forcing them towards the wall, I straddled him so my knees held his legs tight. He glared at me, hissing, still trying to contort his body to freedom. I knelt over him, hands still pressing on his shoulders, staring - a constant. I would show no give. He could wear himself down, and I would still be strong. Then, for an immeasurably short moment, he looked at me angrily and changed tactic. He started to slam his head against the wall, hard. Soon, there was a faint spot of blood sponged on the wall, blood that was matting in his hair. He would not stop unless I let him go.

I slapped him.

He cried out softly. Though he had been inflicting far worse pain on himself, he was not expecting the hard slap across his face. He looked at me again, but this time, there were no words. Only the look of pain, confusion, and the most primal, childlike kind of hurt. Betrayal.

I was never your friend to betray you, Tobias.

With some difficulty, I reached and grabbed the bowl and spoon. At this point, I had very little trouble opening his jaw and holding it tightly. I spooned some of the oatmeal-like (though I doubted that it actually was anything as identifiable as oatmeal) mixture into his mouth, and held his jaw closed. "Swallow," I told him, and though the tears in his eyes, I could see a bit of that defiance shining through. Without so much as a sigh, I moved my hand to cover his mouth, and used my other to pinch his nose, sealing off his air. His eyes grew wide as I stayed there, watching his instinct to survive kick in. He might have lost his will to live, but the body will always do all it can to survive. He swallowed.

I should take my hands away.

I lingered. I was pressing his head against the wall, so the raw, bloody mess on back of his head was getting rougher from the brick. His eyes started to run frantically across my face, pleading with me. Again, without words. Again, just the incomprehensible shock. There were no words for the way his eyes groped for a reason that part of him knew wasn't there.

I am your enemy, Tobias.

I could kill him. Right here, right now. I could kill him with my calculated, unforgiving procedure. I could simply stare at him, not moving my hands, until he stopped moving all together. And there would be no more talking eyes, no more "mum", no more "smoothly", no more risk. It would be mercy, for both of us.

His eyelids started to flutter.

I let go.

My hands were shaking.

He gasped for air. Maybe it wasn't him, maybe it was just his body that needed the air. Maybe he had wanted me to do it.

No, he hadn't. Not with the way he looked at me.

I picked up the bowl and spoon again. This time, I did not have to hold his head. He ate voluntarily, defeated, not looking at me.

Fine.

After the bowl was empty, I grabbed his head roughly to judge the damage he'd done. It was enough to need a bandage. I carried spare cloth on me in case this was necessary. Affixing the bandage around his head, I felt his body react, confused. When I was finished, he looked up at me once more, searching my face for a reason I would help him. His eyes caught mine once more. They didn't speak. He did.

"Do you love me?"

I said nothing.

"Mrs. Lovett said that people didn' always show love, and she didn' think I knew, but I knew she was talkin' about Mister Todd, I did, she fancied him and she said 'e loved 'er, I just didn' see it, but I 'eard them some nights and some nights they'd argue and Mrs. Lovett would run down and 'old me in 'er arms and cry and say she wasn' crying, and talk about 'ow much Mister Todd loved 'er. And one time I said 'e didn' show it well and she said that no, 'e didn' but that made her love 'im more and the point was, 'e loved 'er. And sometimes cuts an' bruises showed more love than pearls and roses." Pause. "'e cut 'er really bad, once."

I should have killed him when I had the chance.

He knew. He knew that if he hit his head against the wall, it would affect me. That I would have to stop him. He knew that.

"Do you love me?"

Or maybe I was endowing him with too much intelligence.

I stood up and headed for the door. I needed to get away from this cell, away from this child, this patient. Which was all he was. A patient. Like any other.

"Do you, mum?"

Against my better judgment, I stopped, turned and looked at him. There was red mark on his face where I had slapped him.

I left the room.


End file.
